O Love O Fire!

'36-28-37'. I recall that being Nnamdi's take on the woman's 'statistics' when she'd been brought out of her fiery flat, in the last extremity of fright and quite oblivious of her own exposure. 'She's quite buxom' he had said. Femi had crawled, with the hysterical woman on his back clinging tightly, out of the hole in the wall, and it had taken a few moments for her to regain some measure of composure, tear herself off Femi's back (though I suppose he was not in such a hurry) and return to her previous hysterics, this time for the rescue of her husband who had yet to emerge from the hole – all this in the nude. Not a shred of cloth covered the tiniest inch of her body as she grabbed one flummoxed man after the other screaming 'My husband!' and totally unperceptive of her bare, jiggling pompoms having left the poor artisans quite discomposed for several moments. Luckily the young honeymooner had managed to find his way to the hole and crawled out in the middle of the spectacle. O the many wonders of the female form. Even two months after, we still make a private joke of it.

'So you're saying you didn't leave the gas on?' someone asked for the umpteenth time, to the noticeable chagrin of the young lady – and myself I might add. She had been narrating the story to us – at least as much as she could amid paroxysms of sorrow and fear - after we'd dropped her wounded husband off at the hospital and brought her to Femi's family house to spend the night. According to her, the honeymooners had left their generator running all through the night (I presume they were romping) and after turning it off the following morning, her husband had brought it in, placed it next to a gas cylinder and gone back to have some…umm…dessert.

The first explosion must have been from the petrol in the generator. It was what got their attention. The young man rushed back to the kitchen and froze at the sight of it wreathed with roaring flames. At the other end of the room and swathed in flames was one of their exits. I reckon he might have set off a mental stopwatch, grabbed his wife and made for the other exit, had he the benefit of foresight. His wife presently joined him at the door, mirroring his perplexed expression – probably 20 more seconds gone. I reckon the man set off his stopwatch at that point for, according to his wife, he in an effort to retard the spread of the fire, reached into the sweltering kitchen and pulled the door shut, flaying his arms in the process. That move might have cancelled out the loss ot time from his earlier hesitation but out of concern for his scorched arms, his wife took off her dressing gown and tried to wrap them, losing more time in the process. Probably 30 more seconds gone and 'Boom!' - the second explosion sent the gas cylinder crashing through the kitchen wall and into the sitting room, effectively sealing off the last exit from their flat. To compound their difficulties, it was a week day, and few homes were not empty.

Vicious realization and a concomitant panic came crashing through the woman's mind and she tore off to their bathroom window, beating frantically against the burglar-proofing and screaming for help. Femi's bedroom window overlooks their house, and he and his friend Nnamdi were in the balcony, no doubt engrossed in their ever-prurient discussions, when he caught sight of the woman's jiggling pompoms, and almost instinctively grasping the method to her madness, he ran off to get his brother and they both ran off to get some artisans who then ran off to get their tools. They all then ran for the house, scaling the dividing wall demarcating the estate and made their way to the bedroom window of the honeymooners. By then, several snaky rivulets of smoke had reached under the room door, gradually enveloping their room inch by inch like the tentacles of some fiery, fiendish mollusc; an unwelcome spectre of a looming tragedy.

The artisans went to work using a rather intriguing expedient. They rapped on successive portions of the wall and could tell from the report whether or not the other end was burning. When they had found a spot they were satisfied with, they smashed a hole through it and Femi went in on all fours to the bathroom and brought the woman out in the manner I described earlier. She was immobilized by fright and he was in a mild shock from the burning of his arms so it is hard to say if they would have made their way out on their own. As such, Femi now fancies himself to be a hero as few others have a story to match his feat of derring-do. I have questions as to what how decisiveness might have fared had it been a naked man in distress, but I shall label my thoughts envious and afford him his credit.

I came upon this spectacle at the very end of it when the woman was clothed – tsk! But I heard the story and saw the house. It's been two months now, give or take a few weeks. I saw her the other day come to hand over the keys to the flat to their landlord. Upon asking about her husband's state of health, her eyes grew misty. The answer was lost in the twilight of her sorrow. He will be buried in a little while I am told. They were married for a month. It is beyond me how she lost him to a pair of burnt arms, but c'est la vie I guess. She looked more like a 34 to me though. Or perhaps she's lost weight.

P.S - I just read a post over at someones blog where she called someone else 'blogsvilles powerful female member'. LOOOOOOOL!!! I don't know about you but that sounds so hilariously connotative. I shan't mention their name's but the observant ones amongst you who've read the post ought to remember.

Charles Dickens on maximizing the New Year

My first post for the year is an excerpt from Charles Dickens 'David Copperfield'. It contains what has become a very popular maxim on procrastination - one of my greatest 'vices', and one that must be conquered this year.


'My dear young friend', said Micawber, 'I am older than you; a man of some experience in life, and - and of some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally speaking. At present, and until something turns up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow but advice. Still my advice is so far worth taking that - in short, that I have never taken it myself, and am the' - here Mr Micawber, who had been beaming and smiling, all over his head and face, up to the present moment, checked himself and frowned - 'the miserable wretch you behold.'

...

'...My advice is, never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar him!'

...

'My other piece of advice, Copperfield,' said Mr Micawber, 'you know. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditure, nineteen ninety-six; result, happiness. Annual income, twenty pounds; annual expenditure, twenty pounds ought and six; result, misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, the God of the day goes down upon the dreary scene, and - and, in short, you are for ever floored. As I am!'